I took a walk to the Art Institute
on my lunch break. Generally speaking,
the city of Chicago is filthy and poor
(for those who have the eyes to see it).
I was still stunned when, before
I crossed one street, a woman,
in baggy, tattered coats, like some
sad character from a musical about cats,
pulled all her sweatpants down, down
layers of sweatpants, and squatted
right there on the street corner
and peed. Stunned and pitying, I walked
slowly away. No surprises. I was glad
hearing her sighs of relief, the puddle
becoming larger, spreading wider,
staining the sidewalk, her eyes closed.
How's that for scatology?
Another time, about one month ago,
I was walking to work in the morning,
my head hooded and my eyes down,
bracing from the wind and cold.
I spotted a huge lump - I'd say as
big as a cup and a half of chili -
of feces. Slowing my pace and
taking a harder look, I noted -
human feces, for sure. It lumped
and coiled and was too dark to
be healthy. Another instance of
nowhere to go... it sat there,
cooling and hardening,
for three days.
It doesn't matter. An exaltation
of sewage, of excrement as something
funny, or queer - no, something political!
It's very smart, yes, it's very sexy, yes.
But that some people care about these things;
poo and pee and blood and discharge,
not because they are gross or vile or dirty,
or lewd and pornographic or 'pure'...
No. It is a caring for signs of cleansing.
*
I miss skinny dipping too,
in my best friend's backyard lake;
taking the canoe out, all of us,
rowing and rowing until reaching
the very best spot as the sun set,
removing each item of clothing,
free as birds and innocent, gently wild,
creatures letting fish and water weeds
brush our soft legs and feet,
forgetting the time, all time.
Or, out in the middle of this country,
on land which was used for slave labor,
emptied out in the middle of the summer,
me on the dock, you all the way on the other side,
thinking. Thinking. So much nothing
that scared us. And knowing now,
there's nothing to be scared of.
Swimming out, meeting the middle,
no tides, no currents, hardly any movement.
Stillness, still.
On another note,
the potholes outside of my home
haven't been sealed for years.
Shouldn't we learn how
to do this ourselves? Fill
our own potholes, a skill
that would save so much
time and money. Start
sowing our own seeds?
Learning from one another.
*
It wasn't enough though,
the sewage.
It didn't stop anything or even give it pause;
it didn't make you or anyone else
sick. And only through
illness can the mind sharpen
the tongue too, the eye, the ear, the pen,
offering the paradoxical
remedy for their beautifully
general malaise of health
made into folly.
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